


did the devil make the world while god was sleeping?

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Rodrigo Borgia buys his way into Parliament. That in itself is not a secret - everyone knows someone who was bribed for their vote, for their public support - but no one quite knows who voted for him. Not exactly. Everyone Jehan Prouvaire speaks to shrugs, takes a flier, the age-old British tradition of shuffling the blame, and never being happy with anything, coupled with this new attitude of being unwilling to be the one who causes trouble.</i> a les miserables/the borgias crossover, with the premise that rodrigo is the prime minister of england.</p>
            </blockquote>





	did the devil make the world while god was sleeping?

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to jailbird-brother, guildenfern, and sea-change on tumblr for putting up with a year and a half of me whining about needing this in my life.

Rodrigo Borgia buys his way into Parliament. That in itself is not a secret - everyone knows someone who was bribed for their vote, for their public support - but no one quite knows who voted for him. Not exactly. Everyone Jehan Prouvaire speaks to shrugs, takes a flier, the age-old British tradition of shuffling the blame, and never being happy with anything, coupled with this new attitude of being unwilling to be the one who causes trouble. The family has been in the papers for years - they’re old money, and Rodrigo has always been in power. This, coupled with two sons who enjoy fighting and public indecency and a charming socialite daughter, has (unfortunately, in Jehan’s opinion) made them rather a staple in tabloids and broadsheets alike. The only one worth any time (in Jehan’s opinion) is the daughter. Lucrezia Borgia is kind, and decent, in the same unashamed and unaware way that children are. It’s difficult, even in opposing political beliefs, to dislike her. Enjolras, of course, disagrees. The night the result is broadcast he calls an emergency meeting, and by the time Jehan has rubbed the sleep from his eyes and taken a cab to their cafe (well, it’s not theirs, but it may as well be) everyone is already shouting at one another from across the room.

“Julian,” Combeferre rubs his temples, forehead wrinkled while Enjolras waves his hands above his head. Jehan can’t quite hear what he’s saying, but he catches ‘Borgia’, ‘plague’, ‘down the pan’, and suspects that no one has been able to shut him up yet. “Julian, you’re giving me a headache. Sit down, please, start again,” holds up a finger when Enjolras opens his mouth again, “quietly. Think of my head first, the country can be helped with some planning, but I can be helped with some calm, careful discussion.” And Jehan laughs at the high flush on Enjolras’ cheeks, the way his eyes narrow into slate and rain and thunder instead of that pale gentle gaze he’s gotten used to. Watches him scoop his hair into a bun on the top of his head, roll his sleeves up to his elbows, and lean across the table to lower his voice. The room doesn’t quieten for them, so Jehan definitely can’t hear what he’s saying, and anyway the bar holds far more interesting company. His hand finds the dip of Grantaire’s waist instinctively, and the smile on his face as he turns to look at him is slow and warm and whiskey filled. 

“Drink?” Perks an eyebrow, but sits next to him to fold one long leg over the other and shake his hair from his face. Grantaire grins, all chipped front tooth and chapped lips, and nods.

“Please, J.” So of course he leans across the wood to help himself to a bottle of wine and two glasses, tipping Feuilly a wink when he sees he’s been caught. Really, if he wanted to avoid it, he shouldn’t work on meeting-nights. Or let them use this place.

“How long have they been talking this out?” As he pours it, watching Grantaire watch the liquid. He shrugs, runs a hand through dark greasy curls and scratches at the stubble across his jaw.

“‘Bout an hour. What took you so long?”

“I had company.” He hides his smile in his glass, and nearly spits his mouthful back out when Grantaire slaps him hard on the back.

“At least one of us is showing a little rebellion to His Majesty.”

“Oh, come on, you know it’s not like that.” And Grantaire slumps, shrugs, drains his glass and pours another.

“Just don’t really see what we can do about it at three in the morning.”

“Like you were sleeping.”

“Beside the point, J.” He does a terrible job of trying to hide the bottle when Feuilly comes over to take it from them. “What?” Jehan just purses his lips at him as he tucks it into his jacket, Feuilly tapping one long dark finger against the bar top.

“Give me that, please.” Face unmoving behind his glasses, thick eyebrows raised and glare penetrating until Grantaire relents and hands over the bottle. “Jehan, please don’t help yourself to the alcohol.”

“I was going to pay.” The poet huffs, putting his glass down and looking at Feuilly pointedly. “If you’d rather serve me, then…”

“Oh, get fucked.” But he’s grinning, shaking his head, sliding the bottle back to them. “Just… make sure you do pay, this time. You forgot last time. I had to pay for it.” The guilt hits Jehan between the eyes and he shakes his head. Resolves to slip Feuilly £20 at the end of the night.

“Boys.” As always, Courfeyrac is the last to arrive, and the only one to manage to force the place into complete silence. Tonight, he’s done this by standing on the bar and crashing two pot lids together, and Jehan thinks he’s probably deaf now. “Gentlemen, ladies, people of undefined gender, I give you Julian Enjolras.” And while everyone laughs, there’s that electricity in the air and the smell of ozone which comes before a storm. Julian half shoves Courfeyrac from the bar, face creased with a smile, all dimples and Jehan is filled with that warmth which comes with the remembrance of why they’re all there. Why he’s their leader, always, in the end.

“Thank you, Aime de Courfeyrac.” With a mock bow which Aime mimics from his table, next to Combeferre, before realising what he’s been called and shouting a protest which Jehan doesn’t quite catch. “My friends, following the frankly disgusting result of the Prime Ministerial election, I propose a protest.” A cheer which shakes Jehan’s very bones goes up around the room, and often he forgets that he’s in an all boys club until there are moments like this. 

“Now, before we all get our bayonets out of the attic,” Julian leans down to help Combeferre onto the bar beside him, and Jehan catches the fury in Feuilly’s eyes as he looks at the boot marks he’ll have to clean off later, “before we get excited, we have to wait and see what Borgia has to say for himself. If it’s unsatisfactory,” as he looks around the room, glasses glinting in the lamplight, “then we’ll march on Downing Street. We stay peaceful - for now.” Jehan has to muffle his laugh in his wrist, turn it into a cough, because Combeferre is a beautiful mix of hilarious and terrifying when he’s out for blood.

“Leo’s right.” Aime calls, from the back of the room, and Jehan shoots a smile at Grantaire when he heaves a sigh and looks into the bottom of his glass. “We can’t fight this with our fists, not yet. It’d be unfair of us not to at least give him a chance.”

“Not that he deserves one.” The growl comes from Bahorel, by the fire exit, bandana holding dreadlocks away from his face as he lounges back in his chair and kicks his boots up onto the table. “How much do you think he paid for that house? That position?” His accent is as thick as his arms and as deep as his skin, eyes lidded as he flashes a grin which is part brilliant white and part gold teeth up at Julian. The bayou runs hot in his veins, always, and he yelps as Aime stretches out one foot to knock the front legs of the chair he’s tipping back. Jehan knows that this retaliation happens purely because Aime is the only one with connections to the family; Mummy and Daddy pushing him to spend time with the daughter, ready for an engagement, for that boost up the political ladder. 

“Everyone deserves a chance, Chris.” Julian shrugs one shoulder, arms folded and hair falling out of his bun. Jehan wants to correct it, put it up properly, because whenever he sees him he’s falling apart at the seams in terms of his hair and clothes. “Even if that chance is the only one they get.” And Jehan knows he means it. The issue isn’t with them as people, but as figures. Too much money, too much greed, too much power given to people who will not necessarily do what is best for the country with it. 

“You have too much faith in people.” Is all Chris has to say to that, pulling his bandana over his eyes and heaving a sigh.

*

He ends up letting Grantaire crash on his sofa, and ignores the way he crawls into his bed at dawn because the sun rises and bathes the living room with hot light. There’s a lot that Jehan would do for him, and this is one of them, lets him sling an arm around his waist and huff snores into the back of his neck until the afternoon. He misses his shift at the florist. Misses lunch, almost misses dinner were it not for Aime letting himself into the flat and Aloysius - an enormous, puppy-sized Maine Coon - immediately starting to yowl for the Chinese takeaway he can smell.

“Jehan?” He calls, setting bags of food on the table. “Are you home?”

“In the bedroom.” He has to whisper-shout, because Grantaire is still sleeping.

“You minx.” Aime grins, sidling around the doorframe all tanned skin and deep v-necked white shirt, Wayfarers folded into the collar as he folds his arms. “Oh, Felix.”

“He’s sleeping.” Jehan hushes him, but lifts an arm so that Aime can bend and hug him, press a kiss to his temple. “I didn’t want him to wake up and be hungover.”

“Probably for the best, sweet.” As he pushes a hand through the length of Jehan’s hair, perching next to him. “I brought you sweet and sour chicken and prawn toast.”

“Marry me.”

“Can’t. Being set up to marry Lucrezia, you know that.” It weighs heavily on his broad shoulders, so Jehan sits up to rub them. 

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I know. But I kind of want to? Like, as nasty and vindictive as her family as a whole is, she’s lovely.” He heaves a sigh, and behind Jehan, Felix yawns.

“Do I smell food?”

“I didn’t bring any for you. I didn’t know you were here.” Aime smiles apologetically at him, reaches over to dig his fingers in at his bare knee until he jerks away, and Jehan sighs.

“I’ll share mine, Felix. Don’t worry.”

“You’re an angel, J.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gets up, slow and reluctant as he unfurls. “Only when I feed you.”

“And when you let me sleep in your bed.”

*

It takes several cups of coffee, thick with syrup, to push the sleep from his eyes. The sun is setting by the time he’s awake enough to dress, but in all honesty it’s stopped mattering. Theirs is a nighttime crowd at the best of times, and really Jehan wouldn’t trade sunsets for sunrises when this way around it means he can sit with a blanket around his shoulders as the room turns orange-brown-black and Felix has to light candles in order to see his sketchbook.

“Tilt your head up a bit,” and he does, lets the light of the flames catch on his cheekbones and eyelashes and listens to the scratch of a pencil. “D’you think we missed much today?”

“Well,” Jehan grins, cutting his eyes to him and watching him frown because he’s moved, “I checked the papers when Aime left. The Houses of Parliament are still there, so I would say Julian hasn’t quite gotten the cavalry together in order to storm the tyrant just yet.”

“Mm. Eyes on the window.”

“Yes sir.” He can’t help the smirk, but yelps when Felix’s pencil hits the side of his face.

“You’re such a shit.”

*

It’s turning cold when he waves him off, bundled up in a borrowed jumper and stolen scarf with his pictures and pencil case tucked under his arm and long grubby fingers clasped around the neck of a bottle of vodka. Jehan feels his heart swell, and oh, he loves him so much. And with that comes the telltale prickling under his skin which tells him he needs a fuck, needs a cigarette, needs something stronger than all of that put together. He waits until Felix has rounded the corner which leads to Liverpool Street Station before he closes his door, pockets his key, and starts in the opposite direction. The wind bites him, and he wishes he hadn’t given Felix his mustard jumper after all. Misses the thick wool creeping up around his neck. But the walk is short and he’s done it a million times before, and his fingers are only a little bit red when he presses them into a doorbell and waits. 

“Back already, little one?” Montparnasse’s eyes grin at him from a slat in the door, and he just shrugs. Misery makes him that much colder. Somewhere in the flat, a dog barks, and he bites the inside of his cheek against the fear of an unpredictable animal. Still, it’s warm and just on the uncomfortable side of humid when he crosses the threshold and hangs his coat. Montparnasse leans back against the doorframe, still grinning, and Jehan heaves a sigh. He’s just so… tired. Like he’s run a marathon instead of just walking down Fournier Street. 

“We don’t approve of the elected leader.” Is all he says by way of an explanation, and the laugh which leaves Montparnasse is barked and bitter. 

“Of course we don’t.”

“Can I stay here tonight?”

“What, none of your friends willing to warm your bed?”

“Not tonight.” And his hand is cold when it settles on the small of Jehan’s back, fingers long and pale, thumb brushing over the strip of skin where his shirt has ridden up just a little. 

“Suppose you’d better come up, then.”

“Suppose I had.”

*

“Your phone’s ringing.” Muffled into his hair, and the light is far too bright, and he’s missed another shift, and he doesn’t want to (or think he can, for the bruises on his wrists and shoulders and thighs) move. But he takes the phone from Montparnasse, blinks a few times and clears his throat free of smoke and wine.

“Hello?”

“Where the fuck have you been, Nugget?”

“Chris? What time is it?”

“Like five, you fucking bimbo. Where are you? I’ll pick you up.” Thinks about the hideous orange campervan parking on the cobbles of Brick Lane and huffs a sigh. Wipes his eyes and rolls over.

“Didn’t think we had a meeting today.”

“We meet every Thursday. You’d better get here or like, Julian will shave my head or something.”

“It’s Wednesday.” He tells the pillow, closing his eyes again and yawning.

“Er, no, kid, it’s definitely Thursday.”

“Shit.” Groaned as he sits up and his head throbs, and he can’t remember where he’d put the previous day but it’s gone now and he doesn’t know where his jeans are until Montparnasse holds them up. “Right, okay, I’m on my way.”

“You’d better fucking be. I like my hair as it is.” Hangs up as he hops into his clothes, one arm into his coat before he even has a moment to look at Montparnasse.

“Thanks for waking me, twat.”

“You looked like you needed the sleep, pet.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll see you later, then?” He accepts the kiss, but doesn’t put his shoes on by way of principle, slamming the door behind him as he holds an arm out for a cab. Next time, he tells himself as he laces his boots, next time he’ll set a goddamn alarm.


End file.
